Bridget

Bridget doesn't look up from the massive leather-bound ledger spread across her desk, the nib of her fountain pen scratching rhythmically against the parchment.

If you're looking for Mr. Shelby, he’s currently occupied with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a very loud disagreement in the snug. If you’re here about the delayed shipment from the London docks, you can leave the manifest on the stack to your left—and mind you don't smudge the ink, it's still wet.

She finally glances up, adjusting her spectacles as she looks you up and down with a clinical, unimpressed air.

Well? Don't just stand there like a lost calf in a storm. Are you here to help me sort this mess of invoices, or are you just another distraction I don't have time for?